


One by one my leaves fall

by thelastfig



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Acorn - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Ghosts, M/M, Multi, Spirits, The One Ring - Freeform, so many feelings about a stupid acorn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-06 23:15:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3151952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastfig/pseuds/thelastfig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the town of Hobbiton, on top of the highest hill, stands an oak tree whose leaves do not fall. </p><p>----</p><p>Bilbo Baggins returns from the east with a ring and an acorn in his pocket. He plants the acorn, watches as it grows into a tree, and remembers the events of his journey to the east. Yet, peculiar things happen around the strange tree, and Bilbo begins to wonder if more than just the oak tree stands guard over Bag End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

It is a strange event for a hobbit to return from being dead. Gossip paves the paths Bilbo walks on as he hears hobbits whispering how unnatural and impolite it is to suddenly appear alive again after leading people to believe otherwise after all this time. Bilbo is not sure where the irony lays in all of this; the idea he had anything to do with being declared dead, that returning from supposed death was met with animosity instead of joy, or the fact of after all he had been through Bilbo actually has survived. Whatever the case, Bilbo becomes something of a social pariah. And while buying back his items and being generous with his coin has made other hobbits polite to his face, his empty mailbox and dusty tea set speak louder than a false smile. 

"They'll come around once something else catches their fancy," Holman tells him when he catches Bilbo huffing after another day of an empty mailbox.

Bilbo gives him a twitch of a wry smile before lighting his pipe and leaning back to watch the comings and goings. The smell of fresh cut greenery as Holman and his apprentice Hamfast trim the plants around Bag End mixes with the smell of burning tobacco and lingers pleasantly in the air around him. Smoke drifts from chimneys as bread is baked and meats and vegetables are roasted. Clothes are washed and rung before being spread out on drying lines in the sun; bed sheets flutter up and down in the morning breeze. Children run about, laughing as they sneak away from chores in search of play. The cacophony of noises only a market can produce ring up the hill, and Bilbo lets the familiar sights and sounds of home sink into his weary bones. 

Closing his eyes as he takes a draw from his pipe, he breathes in and then out slowly. His free hand strays into his pocket and to the items within. His fingers brush against cold metal and then smooth shell and rough cap. He opens his eyes. Hobbiton seems to shrink before him and a voice in the back of his mind asks how this was ever enough.

"It's not, not anymore," he mutters under his breath before shaking darker thoughts from growing in his mind.

"Mr. Bilbo sir?" Holman calls to him and Bilbo walks over to where Holman is perched on a ladder, trimming some growth hanging down over the windows. "The top of the smial gets good lights and if you, and not offence to your current garden, good garden such as it is, but if you want to expand up here it-"

"No," Bilbo cuts Holman off abruptly and his gardener seems nearly taken aback.

"I'm sorry, I mean no disrespect sir, I-"

"I'm sorry I didn't mean, I just," Bilbo's fingers seek his pocket out again and he takes a puff from his pipe to dislodge the lump threatening to form. "I have plans. For it."

The sun shines directly into Bilbo's eyes as Holman shifts on the ladder, causing his eyes to water, or so Bilbo tells himself.

Bilbo apologizes again and makes a hasty retreat inside. He withdraws to the kitchen and absentmindedly begins baking items he's made hundreds of times before and they come as easily to him as breathing. Their smell makes his stomach sound in hunger, but he knows his mouth will turn anything he tries to eat to dust. When Holman leaves, Bilbo sends him with everything he's baked for his family. He doesn't need to alienate the only hobbit still speaking to him.

Fingers in his pocket, Bilbo is beginning to think sooner or later he won't need the ring to become invisible. And when he thinks on it, he doesn't really mind. Bilbo's not the same hobbit he once was; making conversation over tea seems years in the past when it's barely been one. No, the empty mailbox does not bother him as much as he makes it look, but perhaps the going through the motions of being upset are better than not feeling anything… or at least looking like he doesn't. 

*

Memories come and go; sometimes the trill of a lark or the smell of fresh baked bread ushers in some old recollection dancing on the edge of forgotten. Good memories dig deep and they become the bones of a brighter future, becoming stronger with each new good memory. Bad memories though, they are the flesh of existence, cut into and a pound carved out. They leave scars, both physical and mental, and some are never recovered from. All a person can do is protect those good memories while letting the bad heal.

Bilbo doesn't remember what he used this small room for before he left. He remembers his kitchen, his armchair, the location of this handkerchief, and hundreds of small, asinine things. He's not sure if time, trauma, or the scar on his head is the cause for this loss of memory, but he finds he doesn't care. As he searches for his sold items, and he's sure there are more he doesn't remember his less scrupulous neighbors don't see fit to return, he puts a desk and a chair in the small room. The window looks to the west over his, still partially trampled, garden and the setting sun.

Bilbo ruminates on the west and tries to forget the east as wet handkerchiefs litter the floor around him. 

*

As late spring turns into summer and those hot days fade away into fall, the top of Bag End stands untouched. The acorn in his pocket seems to grow into him, it's roots tethering to him and the weight of its branches pulling him down. It is a slow growth, for Bilbo still finds it hard to eat and the acorn drains him of any energy he has left. For all the grief it causes him, he cannot find it in himself to bury it, to return it to the earth. No, Bilbo has done enough of that for his entire life and even if it brings him a self-inflicted pain, he knows that pain is nothing compared to the wound festering in his heart. 

*

When September rolls around Bilbo notices, with no small degree of cynicism, other hobbits are beginning to speak with him again outside of what they're forced to. People say hello, purposely cross the market or lane to speak with him, and some even drop in unannounced to chat. His mailbox begins to overflow with letters, invitations to tea, and the odd birthday party invite. Some he accepts, making stilted conversation about trivial things, eating items that taste like ash in his mouth, and pretending like he wants to be there whilst being stared at like a prize hog at a fair. He's not sure why there's this renewed interest in him, but perhaps he's a novelty or something of that ilk. It isn't until he is fishing in some unseen corner by a creek between Hobbiton and Bywater and a troop of tweens tramp on by speaking of Mad Bilbo Baggins and the fortune he has hidden away in Bag End that Bilbo understands why there is a sudden renewed interest in him. 

"Ma says to be nice so we are invited if he has a birthday party," one of them says and Bilbo thinks if he rolls his eyes any harder they might fall out. "With all that treasure he's sure to give good presents."

"Presents?" The others sound so hopeful and Bilbo can't help but snort.

The sound gives away his location and the tweens stare at him with large eyes and gaping mouths. Bilbo raises an eyebrow at them and they dart off like rabbits. It startles a chuckle out of him and by the time he's done laughing all the fish in the creek have been scared off.

"So it's a party they want?" He mumbled to himself and ruminates for a long while on how to react to this new information.

In the end he throws a small, but grand, party and spares no expense. Holman and his family, a few of his uncles up from Tuckborough, the Gamgees from Bagshot row, and no one else make up his rather last minute but widely talked about birthday party. Baskets overflowing with food, winter cloaks for growing fauntlings, fishing poles, new gardening equipment, pots and pans purchased from traveling dwarves, hard to find seeds; Bilbo Baggins goes above and beyond. And if the hobbits who gossiped about him are put out about not receiving an invitation and ergo one of the many magnificent presents, well, perhaps they'll have learned something. 

And while Bilbo 'wins' and life settles back down to almost what it was before he left on his 'mad adventure' as the other hobbits are beginning to call it, there is still the lingering sentiment he does not belongs and perhaps never will. Bilbo is not sure if he minds or not. 

*

Winter is cold, but Bilbo has known colder. The encroaching frost heralds the darkest time of year, but even so Bilbo has known darker. When the first flakes of snow fall, small ones which melt as they touch the ground and then finally large, wet snowflakes which pile into a good foot of snow, Hobbiton all but shuts down with the sun to await the safety and warmth of the spring. Here, alone in his smial, Bilbo remembers the long days of everlasting night in the Elf King's dungeon. His ring he keeps in his hand, turning it over and over, unconscious of his actions until he catches himself and puts the ring away only to be bewildered by repeat behavior minutes later. And while the snow and wind of winter steals warmth from the body, Bilbo recalls a cold starting inside his body and spiraling out until he was sure he would never be warm again. 

The cold lingers now, inside his heart and in the back of his mind like a poison. No amount of roaring fireplaces and blankets piled high can melt away the sharpest ice of bitterness until its bearer is ready to down in the pool of regret. 

*

Spring dawns before Bilbo can blink. Time has crawled or perhaps flashed by; he's not sure how long the winter lasted as most days were spent in his mind. He has a faint recollection of wandering to the winter markets when his pantries were bare, of visiting a few distant relations, and occasionally cooking for himself, but as the sun shakes him from darker thoughts he sees the shambles around him. The floor is unswept, ashes have overflown the cold fireplaces like an avalanche, dirty dishes with rotting food are piled high on multiple surfaces, and a look in the mirror reveals a monster masquerading as a hobbit. 

For his part, Bilbo is baffled. He doesn't remember how many days have gone, but as he moves about the ruins of Bag End his stomach rumbles like thunder and his legs are weak from disuse. While the fireplaces are bursting with ashes, all of them are cold and Bilbo begins to shiver. How long, he wonders, has he sat in his chair, ruminating on things he cannot change and turning the ring over and over again in his hand? The ring, the ring, but where is the acorn? Bilbo's hands fly over his clothing, patting down pockets and cursing himself when he doesn't feel anything. His stomach turns sour, and he feels like he might retch. Returning to his chair he drops to his knees and filters through the papers and handkerchiefs, heart beating frantically against his chest like a drum and he screams and brushes the piles of trash out of his way when he can't find it. Putting a hand to his heart, telling himself to breathe, he pauses. There's a lump in the hidden pocket of his waistcoat and his fingers, clumsy and numb due to cold, fumble into it.

The acorn is there, against his heart, unscathed. Bilbo's breathing is shaky as he clutches it tight between his fingers. Looking up he sees the portraits of his mother and father looking down at him, and shame at the condition of their house floods through him. No, he tells himself firmly, this won't do at all.

The doors and windows are thrown open and for the first few warm days of spring, clouds of dust and ash come pouring out of Bag End. Sheets are laundered and strung up, rugs are beaten and left to air out, and the sounds of singing interspersed with a strange facsimile of laughter rings down the hill, somewhat unsettling after silence for so long. Other hobbits look up the hill wondering what Mad Bilbo Baggins is laughing about all alone-- his piles of riches no doubt if they were to listen to the Sackville-Baggins'-- but none are brave enough to venture up the hill to look. Winters spent alone could knock a few things loose in an already rattled mind after all.

When the grime is finally all cleared away and Bag End looks like the home he remembers, all there is left to do is clean the resident. Under the caked on ash and dirt there is pale skin, sickly from lack of sun and movement. A full bar of lavender soap and many handfuls of salt are needed to scrub all the muck away, and Bilbo breathes from his mouth so he doesn't have to smell himself as he washes. So long has it been since his curls have been shampooed and combed that clumps falls out and he resorts to cutting a few of the tangles out. The bath water is drained and replaced two more times before Bilbo feels clean and the cold is temporarily chased from his bones. 

He finds a fluffy towel and dries himself off with jerky movements, body still stiff after days, weeks, months of little motion. A look at his old clothes reveals holes and stains; Bilbo is revolted and throws them away unable to stomach looking at them for a moment longer. Glancing into the mirror reveals dark circles under his eyes and a gauntness even weeks in Mirkwood couldn't produce. He is sick, and he wonders how he let himself fall so far. If he could admit it to himself, he would accept this sickness as one of the heart and let time mend it. As it is, Bilbo is not quite ready to heal. Healing means acceptance and there are some truths Bilbo is not strong enough to accept. 

*

Planting season begins after the second big thunderstorm sweeps across the Shire. Holman comes to Bag End every other day to help out with the bulk of the planting and weeding, often with Hamfast trailing behind for the heavy lifting. Bilbo's never had a truly green thumb when it comes to flowers, yet another reason he's never really belonged, but he can manage his vegetables just fine and his tomatoes are a particular source of pride. It takes him sometime, to rediscover how the earth speaks to him after being away from it for so long, but the peace and single minded attention needed in his gardens are a sort of balm on a weary soul.

The top of Bag End still remains bare aside from the grass and a few wildflowers. As April approaches Bilbo thinks back, to puffing his pipe on the front porch without a care in the world, to being perfectly content to pass his life quietly. Oh what changes a few years can bring.

"Holman, Hamfast," Bilbo stops the gardener and his apprentice one day before they leave. "I wonder if you'd be good enough to help me clear away part of the growth on top of the hill next week?"

They exchange a glance before nodding. Holman gives Bilbo an easy smile and drags young Hamfast away, whistling a merry tune as they go. The wind carries the song back up the hill even as they fade from Bilbo's sight.

The acorn is in Bilbo's hand before he is aware of it, familiar smooth shell and rough cap as known to him as the back of his hand. The small, golden acorn has become a comfort to him, precious in a way. As he treks back inside to fetch his pipe, the ring joins the acorn in the palm of his hand. Sunlight catches the metal, sending color glittering over his skin. As valuable as the ring may be, metal laying heavy in his hand, the acorn he values even more so.

Grabbing his pipe, Bilbo returns to the outside and climbs the few steep steps to the top of the hill. From here Bilbo can see the Shire stretch on for leagues around him. Throwing himself to the ground, and within the long grasses which hide him from any peeping eyes, Bilbo lights his pipe and lets out a sigh. The sun continues to shine down and Bilbo returns the ring to his pocket, favoring the acorn.

"All that is gold does not glitter," he muses to himself and lays back, acorn firmly in his hand as he thinks of more words for wandering kings.

*

The roots of the grass reach deep, strong from years of being ignored as nothing more than a decoration. Bilbo, Holman, and Hamfast labor for a few hours, cutting growth down and pulling it out by the roots so it does not return. They pull more than needed to ensure the area remains unchoked, free of anything that might steal sunlight or endanger a new sprout. Rocks, gray with some sort of mineral which catch and reflect sunlight, create a circle in which new soil from the compost is brought up and laid down to provide more nutrients.

Holman and Hamfast chatter good naturedly, Holman passing on knowledge and tips to his apprentice. Bilbo speaks little, enough to be polite, but only a shadow compared to his old self. He tires easily in the warm afternoon, sitting often and apologizing for his lack of energy. The other two hobbits brush it off with smiles, but as hobbits aren't the most subtle of creatures, he sees their concerned glances and tries to ignore them. Bilbo might be odd in the eyes of other hobbits, but he'll be damned if he receives their unwanted pity. 

"Mr. Bilbo," Holman pauses in their cleanup efforts as they take the cut grass to the compost and cleaned tools to the shed, "Can I ask you something?"

Hamfast takes this as his chance to excuse himself for the day and Bilbo sends him on his way with a few more coins than normal and a fond farewell. Holman looks at the ground, reluctant to speak, and Bilbo steels himself for what he is sure will be an awkward conversation. 

"We worry about you, and you've not been looking well since you've returned," Holman begins, taking his hat off and wringing it between his hands. "People talk, Mr. Bilbo, and…" 

Holman trails off, looking up at Bilbo with genuine concern in his eyes. Bilbo is flooded with appreciation for his friend, but he can't voice how more than three meals a day are hard for him to think of, nevermind eat. Months of living on the road, of starving and dreaming of a hot meal, has cured him of the hobbit predilection of overeating. No, he thinks of his dwarves, of the people of Laketown, and he cannot eat. He's not hungry, not in the normal sense, but by hobbit standards his trim build makes him look half-starved. Nightmares of battles, of blood, of goodbyes wake him at night, painting dark circles under his eyes. Bilbo does indeed look like the shadow of the hobbit he once was.

"I… I've been…" lost, indisposed, adrift, "ill." Bilbo tells Holman, unable to meet his eyes. "For a long time now."

"Is there anything I can do?" Holman's voice is gentle, and Bilbo wonders if he's bought into the theory of Bilbo being insane.

"No," Bilbo has to hold back tears which threatened to fall," but thank you." He looks to the east and lets out a strangled laugh.

"What happened, out there on your," and here Holman lowers his voice, "adventure. Is that why you are sick?"

"I-," Bilbo's mind flashes pictures, words, feeling, everything that happened and has to further clamp down on his emotions to prevent himself from crying. "There's nothing like looking, if you want to find something." Thorin's words from a miserable night echo in his mind. 

"And what did you find?"

Bilbo's fingers find the acorn in his pocket. "Something that was not mine to keep."

Holman says no more and Bilbo is immeasurably grateful. They finish cleaning, and Holman leaves with a soft goodbye and understanding smile. There Bilbo stays until the last light of the day is gone from the horizon, sky purple and fading into blue. 

When the lights in the windows of Hobbiton's houses and holes begin to be put out, Bilbo finds his resolve is extinguished with them and he falls to his knees as the tears begin to rain down. At first it's only a few, small tears resonating from his mind and the regret he keeps buried there. Then the dam bursts and sobs rack his body, making his chest heave as tears are ripped from his heart, flooding the ground beneath him. Head bowed, body curled in on itself, Bilbo claws wildly at the ground before pulling the acorn from his pocket and pushing it into the soil, burying it with a sweep of his hand and a broken howl. Collapsing next to it, his fingers curl into the fresh soil as his tears water the earth. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispers again and again and again until he believes it himself.

Bilbo cries until there are no tears left to cry and then cries some more. He falls asleep and does not wake even as thunder booms in the distance and clouds filled with lightning blanket the sky. Rain begins to fall, soft at first and then harder to the point where Bilbo cannot sleep through it and he wakes, looking around with confusion before cursing himself for falling asleep outside. 

Lightning strikes nearby, and Bilbo shrieks, rolling onto his side and slipping in the mud. He picks himself up with haste and not a moment too soon as lightning strikes the top of the hill. The resounding crack of thunder makes Bilbo's world go silent except for a distant ringing. Slipping and tumbling down the hill, he makes for the front door of Bag End. Shaking hands open the door, and Bilbo throws himself inside, crouching on the floor as lightning continues to light up the sky. The ground shakes from the thunder, resonating through him like a hammer strike on an anvil, and fear spikes through him. Gasping for air, he begins to feel lightheaded and realizes he's been holding his breath. 

The high-pitched ringing grows louder and louder until Bilbo clutches the side of his head to try to make it stop. More light than what the sky can produce flashes into his field of vision. Bilbo falls to the floor in a dead faint; the storm dissipates as if it were never really there. 

*

A fog moves into Hobbiton after the rain, and when Bilbo awakes he decides the fog has also moved into his head. Muted sunshine filters in through the window and Bilbo groans, closing his eyes. His movements seem slow, sluggish, and a pounding in his head won't go away. He picks himself up off the floor, stumbling for the first few steps and frowning when he sees mud on the ground. Looking down at himself, he sees he is the source of the mud, and-

The storm, the lightning- Bilbo's eyes grow wide and he bolts to the front door, throwing it open and bursting past Holman and Hamfast. The two hobbits, who have been banging on the door for the past few minutes, gape at him and Bilbo knows he must look a fright with mud caked on his skin, his hair unkempt, and clothing wrinkled; he doesn't care. He runs past them as quick as his shaking legs will allow, up the side of the hill to the top. 

Bilbo stops cold in his tracks. Lightning strikes, black scorched earth, litter the top of the hill. He is aware of Holman and Hamfast coming up behind him, trying to speak with him, but their voices are distant echoes. Bilbo moves forward one step, two steps, another step and another until he finds the blackened circle of stones. He falls to his knees in disbelief, a laugh of relief bubbling up his throat and out of his mouth so loud he's sure even the hobbits in Michel Delving can hear him.

In the wake of the lightning's desolation is a small tendril of an oak sapling, impossible, defiant, and alive.


	2. Chapter Two

It is most improbable, and here most hobbits would say impossible, for a tree to grow from acorn, to sprout, to sapling all in the course of a few hours and one rather alarming thunderstorm. Bilbo is not most hobbits, and riding on the backs of eagles and speaking with dragons has all but removed the word impossible from his lexicon. And how the tree does grow, shooting up like a weed, spreading its branches and unfurling its leaves, as if saying in a headstrong sort of way 'I am not like other trees'. The tree, amazing as it is, does little to curry Bilbo's favor with the residents of Hobbiton. A queer tree, they speak amongst themselves, some unnatural magic that comes from running off with wizards and dwarves.

This of course brings nothing but fascination from the children, who start showing up at tea time with their hands outstretched for biscuits and ears open for fantastical stories. The bravest and foolhardy show up first, pilfering sweets as Bilbo sits in the small amount of shade the tree provides. They listen with wide eyes and unbelieving gasps and soon whole troops of children are seen storming up the the hill to hear about stone giants and men who can turn into bears. Mad Bilbo Baggins, confirmed bachelor and mad off his rocker, returns to the good graces of Hobbiton through its children.

Of course its not all rainbows and butterflies as a good deal of the town does think he's insane, harmless, but a looney. Bilbo knows he could do something to curb the gossip, but then again pretending like elves and dwarves do not amuse him and that life outside of the Shire would not be grand, well, Bilbo's had enough with keeping those parts of himself locked away. Throwing open the chest he keeps his personal treasures in, he takes out Sting and mounts it above the fireplace. Buying a dress form earns him strange looks from the tailor, but the mithril shirt drapes on it with a ethereal shine in his front hallway giving all of his visitors an eyeful and a reminder. And so he goes on, Mad Bilbo Baggins who either saw a dragon or, more likely, saw a barrel of whiskey for all the time time he was away, harmless oddity of Hobbiton and curiously proud of it.

"Harmless," he muses to himself, watching the sunset from where he leans against the strong trunk of the tree. Blowing smokes rings from his pipe, he flips a golden ring into the air with somewhat of a dark chuckle. "If they only knew."

The tree's leaves rustle in the breeze.

*

Holman always shakes his head and laughs at the tree when he comes over to tend to Bilbo's garden. He expects to find weeds encroaching the circle the oak was planted in, but no weeds dare to grown anywhere around it. It is not uncommon to find Bilbo taking tea or one of the lighter meals, scribbling away in one of his journals, or reading some dusty tomb under the tree. The behavior is perhaps a bit odd for a hobbit, but Mr. Bilbo's coloring is returning and there are no longer dark circles under his eyes. He could still do to gain a few more pounds, but progress is progress and Holman won't look a gift horse in the mouth.

As Mr. Bilbo's birthday rolls back around, and Holman is happy to see the guest list is a bit larger this year, leaves around the Shire begin to fade to yellow. All trees except one. The oak tree on top of Bag End stays a mutinous green, daring autumn to try and make its leaves fall. Days pass and yellow leaves turn to fiery red, but still the oak tree remains as green as summer. The first frost comes, all the trees are bare. All but one.

Maybe it's the way the sun shines in the winter, or maybe it's his mind showing him what he wants to see, but Holman swears there are times the leaves shine like gold. He sees Bilbo out there, snow on the ground everywhere except around the base of the tree, leaning against its trunk and puffing away on his pipe. The tree is like a throne, leaves a golden crown, cradling the King on top of the hill as he surveys his domain. Holman makes a note to check on Mr. Bilbo once the lanes are passable again.

*

There is something strange about his tree, Bilbo acquiesces as he takes up his daily vigil against its trunk. The winter snows do not deign to to fall on it, and its leaves refuse to fall. Stranger yet, the tree emits heat like a forge, warmth radiating from its roots, heating Bag End below it and the ground on which it stands. With a blanket or coat to block the wind, sitting under the tree is toasty indeed.

"They probably think I'm rather odd," Bilbo tells the tree, "sitting up here in the snow and talking to a tree. Bebother them all, you're better company than most of them."

One of the branches brushes against his cheeks before trailing up to the tip of his ear where the wind makes the branch flick it. Bilbo pushes the branch away with a laugh.

"Don't let it go to your head or whatever it is trees have."

Shifting back, Bilbo soaks up the warmth, letting his eyes drift over the snow-covered Shire. He lets himself believe, just for a minute, he is leaning back into someone's chest and open arms. When Bilbo falls asleep, his nightmares are far away.

*

A year passes and Bilbo is 54 and some change. He previous weight still hasn't returned, but with his predilection of walking holidays once or twice a month as well as a more restricted eating cycle, he doubts it ever will. What is important is he is healthy and hale, entertaining company and being invited out just as much as he was before the adventure. Newer, fresher gossip has replaced Mad Bilbo Baggins, and while the title still remains other hobbits seems to have forgotten there ever was an adventure. Yes, that enchanted tree does still stand on top of Bag End, but they reason that old wizard Gandalf might have had something to do with that.

The days pass slowly; Bilbo reveals in them, finding a new joy in the simpler things. He spends more time outside, helping Holman expand the garden on the west side of the hill. Months in his kitchen have led to the production of a cookbook carefully cataloging his favorite dishes. Scores of eager children test pastries and baked goods for him while begging stories from him; he happily tells the only hobbits who believe him all about trolls and towns built over water. Esgaroth in particular is a source of fright for them as hobbits are not fond of water and living over water is a terrifying thought indeed.

And while Bilbo is calmer now, perhaps even happy again, he cannot shake the sadness clinging to him like a shadow. When he is busy during the day with chores, errands, gardening, cooking, writing, and other activities, his mind doesn't dwell in such darkness. But as the sun sets and night encroaches, Bilbo finds himself alone with thoughts that will not be silenced.

"It is one thing to be alone without knowing adventure," he tells the tree one night as he sits between two large roots," but being alone and yearning for something you cannot have not matter how much you wish it…"

Only a year and a half old, the tree looks like it has seen five years of growth. Its branches are thick enough to climb and its roots have formed a seat for Bilbo to sit in during his lonesome watches. Its leaves are still green and unchanged, only a few have fallen. One falls now, drifting down and sweeps against his cheek before landing in his lap.

"Don't go all sentimental on me," Bilbo scolds the tree, but follows up with a soft pat on its trunk. "I still have some pride left you know."

The wind blows, a soft sting promising the real chill of autumn is yet to come. As it blows through the leaves on the tree, Bilbo imagines the leaves say his name. His smile is wistful as he pats the tree again. As the sun vanishes along the western horizon, he finds his eyes are drawn to the east.

"I have my books, my armchair, and my garden," Bilbo declares to the east. "I have planted my tree. And yet, it is nothing without you to share it."

The leaves rustle his name once more.

*

A few days into November, just as nights are beginning to produce a frost and Bilbo can see his breath in the air when he sits under the tree, a booming knock echoes throughout Bag End. Bilbo is startled from dozing off at his desk, dropping the pen in his hand and huffing at the ink now splattering the pages. He's not sure what time it is as the sun sets earlier and earlier this time of the year, but a look out the window shows half the lights in Hobbiton extinguished for the night.

The knock comes again, and something tells Bilbo to be weary as there are few hobbits who can knock that forcefully, if any at all. Apprehension curls in his stomach and for a minute he considers putting on the ring and pretending he's not at home. He throws the thought away as soon as he sees his candles and fireplace are still lit as no one would believe he is foolish enough to have an untended fire. With a sigh, he stands and makes his way toward the front door, drawing the cord of his robe tight around him.

"Oh…"

"At your service, Mr. Baggins."

Whatever he was expecting, Dwalin on his doorstep was not it. He has what he's sure is a stupid look on his face as he stares for a moment, eyes and mind not comprehending what he is seeing, before stepping aside and ushering Dwalin in without a word. Taking his cloak and hanging it in the front hall, as well as lifting an eyebrow to the muddy boots which the gruff dwarf removes with a huff, he guides him to the smaller table in his kitchen. Putting a kettle over the fire, he excuses himself to the pantry, slapping together a large tray of baked goods, meats, and a few types of cheese. He pauses before he adds the blue cheese to the plate, returning it to it's shelf with a snort.

"No one else has come here?" Dwalin asks when Bilbo puts the tray down in front of him, before clarifying, "Other dwarves?"

"Aside from traders and tinkers, no," Bilbo tells him. "Avoiding someone or are you being followed?"

"Not sure," Dwalin takes a large gulp from the tankard of ale Bilbo sets in front of him. "Probably."

"Are you in danger or should I expect more dwarves tumbling in and raiding my pantry?"

"Scared, Master hobbit?"

"Only for my dishes," Bilbo sniffs, making a note to store his better sets less they be tosses around again.

To this Dwalin can only chuckle. Bilbo smiles and shakes his head. The kettle begins to sputter and he removes it from the fireplace, pouring the water into a teapot with some mint leaves. Adding the pot to the table, Bilbo pours himself a cup and holds it between both hands, fingers regaining lost warmth.

Sitting down, he picks at a scone while his companion eats. He tries not to stare, but now the shock and surprise have worn away, it's hard not to. Dwalin's beard remains, but gone is his hair. In its place new tattoos have been inked onto his scalp. More scars marr his face, perhaps ones from the Battle of Five Armies time has eroded from Bilbo's memory. Dwalin seems older as well, if not in body than in spirit. There is a considerable weight on his shoulders, a tenseness greater than what Bilbo remembers. 

"You're a long way from home," Bilbo says after Dwalin is done laying waste to the food in front of him. 

"Am I?" Dwalin's tone is either sarcastic or ironic, and Bilbo cannot decipher between the two. "I've spent more time on the road and in Ered Luin than in Erebor."

Sometimes it's words unspoken which resonate louder than anything said aloud. Bilbo hears 'I've spent my entire life by his side and now I'm lost'. The weight on Dwalin's shoulders is guilt, clear as day now Bilbo knows what he is looking at.

"Did you run away?" Bilbo asks and the dark glare sent his way makes him rephrase," Leave without telling anyone?"

"No. Balin knows."

Bilbo reaches across the table and pats Dwalin on the forearm. "You're welcome here as long as you need."

"Not more than a day or two."

"At least two," Bilbo's voice is firm. "It will take that long to wash and dry your clothing." He sniffs the air and wrinkles his nose.

"You were always a fussy little thing," Dwalin manages a chuckle as he rolls his eyes. "Dwarves are not made for waistcoats and tea."

"Nor are they made to smell like a barn."

Dwalin glowers at him and Bilbo returns it with a fond smile.

*

The giant pile of clothing pulled from Dwalin's body and travel bag reminds Bilbo dwarves dress in multiple layers, many wearing or carrying all the clothing they own. Perhaps it's different now Erebor has been reclaimed and wealth is pouring out of the mountain, but judging by Dwalin's pile of clothing, a long life of frugality seems a hard habit to grow out of. Gathering the clothing and stuffing it into muslin sacks, Bilbo points Dwalin to the bathroom before throwing the bags over his shoulder. Trekking down to Bag Shot row, he asks if anyone can take laundry for extra coin, as his normal laundry day isn't for another week, and pays double. No doubt rumors will spring back up when it becomes obvious the clothes do not belong to a hobbit, but Bilbo would rather put up with those rumors than be called a bad host. 

Dwalin is still in the bath when he returns, so Bilbo heads to the kitchen to prepare a meal. There has been an overabundance of gourd plants this year and Bilbo tries to incorporate them into every meal. He had baked a few the previous night and now scoops out the flesh to make into a soup. Squash soup with crusty bread to dip into it makes a perfect lunch for them to eat up on the hill. He pauses in his stirring as he hears the water draining from the bathtub and thinks of his guest. With a snort he pulls a few dried sausages from his pantry and adds them to the basket along with the bread and two lidded jars of soup.

When Dwalin appears he is dressed in a brown tunic and pants a few shades darker. Even without any of his armor on he still appears largely menacing, like he could kill with a punch or maybe even a well-placed glare. Bilbo knows it's a carefully constructed facade, to keep people from talking to him, to make enemies think twice about attacking him, but Bilbo wonders if Dwalin ever lets his mask slip, if he ever feels lonely. 

"Will you carry this?" Bilbo hands the basket to Dwalin and picks up the cloth he uses for picnics. "I thought we'd eat up top, the view is spectacular." 'And so you can see if anyone is coming,' Bilbo thinks his meaningful conversations tend to be the silent ones.

They grab their cloaks and trudge outside up to the top of Bag End. Spreading the cloth on the ground, Bilbo tells Dwalin to make himself comfortable before he sprints back down to grab two tankards of ale. When he returns, he finds Dwalin staring up at the tree, eyebrows furrowed. Making some noise so as not to startle him, Bilbo hands him an ale and settles himself down into his usual spot between the roots. Dwalin eventually sits down, and Bilbo hands him a jar of soup while setting the bread and sausages out on a plate.

"This an elf tree?" Dwalin makes 'elf' sound like a curse, and Bilbo hides a laugh by taking a sip of soup. "Something's off about it."

"I didn't know you were an expert of horticulture," Bilbo responds and laughs when Dwalin raises an eyebrow at him. "It's from Beorn's garden."

A pause. 

"The acorn?" Bilbo blinks; he didn't know anyone else had known about the acorn aside from- "I overheard you that day, when you were telling him."

Him. Thorin. Bilbo wonders if Dwalin has as hard of a time saying Thorin's name as Bilbo does. How many others knew Thorin as Dwalin did, as a person and not a symbol or legend? Bilbo is free of constant reminders here, in Bag End, in the Shire miles and miles away from the Lonely Mountain. Dwalin lives under the shadow of what might have been. If he did run away, well, Bilbo doesn't blame him. He knows a little something about running away. 

"A hobbit cannot have inkings to remember someone they've lost," Bilbo murmurs, eyes searching out the new tattoos he knows commemorates his fallen kin. 

"Ink honors. I do not need them to remember."

"Nor do I need a tree."

Dwalin gives him a wry smile and goes to take a sip of his ale. At that moment, a leaf falls from the tree and lands in Dwalin's tankard with a soft plink. Dwalin scowls at the tree and removes the leaf. Taking a sip, he sets the ale down to grab a sausage and pick up his jar of soup. A leaf glides down and falls into the soup with a flourish. Dwalin blinks.

"Your tree hates me."

"Maybe it's fond of you."

A leaf drifts down and lands on Dwalin's head. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the chapter delay. Life is being... difficult. Hopefully I've have time to write and type up a new chapter this weekend.
> 
> Sorry if there are mistakes. Feel free to point any out so I can correct them .

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the 60 years between the Hobbit and the Fellowship of the Ring. I'm staying as close to the book as possible for the timeline. Not sure how many chapters it will be yet, hopefully not more than four. But no, seriously, my brother (super oblivious male stereotype of a brother) turns to me in the movie theater and says 'I don't think Thorin could be eye-fucking Bilbo any harder right now' during the acorn scene and I figured it wasn't all in my Bagginshield mind if he could see it. 
> 
> Sorry if there are any mistakes, but this hasn't been beta'ed. If anyone has free time to beta, I'm actively looking for one.


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